


Run All the Way to the County Line

by Goethicite



Category: Justified, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, Crossover, Drinking, Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:06:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goethicite/pseuds/Goethicite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint keeps running and drinking.  Eventually he has to crash somewhere.  This little bar in the hills is as good as a place as any, and the woman serving the drinks is as kind as she is pretty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run All the Way to the County Line

The man was sick. He coughed wet, harsh, and ugly when he ordered bottom shelf bourbon at a table against the wall in the back. Ava frowned a little she handed him the drink. "You okay, honey?" she asked, trying to catch his eye.

He had one of those faces which made it hard to know whether he was twenty or forty. He was legal, she'd checked that. Shooting the whisky without a flinch, he closed his eyes into the burn before he answered. "Yeah." When he opened his eyes, they were pale and made Ava want to cry though she didn't know why. A rictus of an expression that might have been a smile passed over his face. "I'm fine." A pile of bills appeared from his pocket and slid across the wood beneath his fingers. "Keep'em coming, please."

Ava poured him another from the bottle on her tray, frowning. As she passed Johnny on her way to the back, she tilted her head towards the man, "Watch that one. He paid upfront. A hundred."

"Our problem is…?" Johnny asked crossly. "We got a hell of time gettin' most folks to settle, Ava."

"Just a bad feelin'," Ava replied just as sharply. "There's somethin' not quite right about him."

Johnny frowned, covertly glancing at the slumped figure. The man was coughing into the sleeve of his batter camouflage jacket. It sounded painful. He soothed his throat with the shot as soon as he could breathe again. His eyes flicked up at he smiled at Johnny. The expression was lopsided and unnatural. Johnny shivered. "Might be somethin' to that then," he admitted grudgingly. Ava punched him in the shoulder out of sheer irritation before going to get another case of glasses.

Their mystery man drank his way through most of Old Crow with a determined single-mindedness in his corner of the bar between sips of Bud Light. Ava poured his shots for him. When Johnny had gone over, the man had startled away enough to knock the table and tip his glass, thankfully empty, over. Their boy liked Ava though. The drunker he got, the softer and sweeter he smiled each time she brushed past his shoulder until it looked almost real.

When Boyd hurried in from the cool night, the man nearly jumped out of his skin. Ava grabbed the bottle and rushed over to pour him another shot. "It's just my boy now," she reassured him, gently pressing a hand to his shoulder as she poured. "You want another beer, honey?"

"Yeah," the man rasped, shaking as he rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Please." He produced another stack of twenties to tuck in her hand.

"Honey, you're paid up through the night," she reassured him, trying to hand it back.

He shook his head. "It's fine. I'm gonna be fucked up by the time you close. I figure this way you guys won't let my sorry ass freeze to death." Ava nodded and slipped the bill into her apron as he turned back to his drink.

Boyd was smiling at her from behind the bar as she came back with her tray of empties. It faded as he saw the purse of her lips. "What's wrong, darlin'?" he asked, stacking fresh beers on a second tray for her to deliver.

She shook her head. "It's nothing, honey." Propping the tray of fresh glasses on her hip, she added, "Don't bother the boy in the corner. He's real jumpy. Just let me know if he goes dry."

With more finesse than Johnny, Boyd snuck a good look at the man. "He treatin' you alright?" he asked carefully. Boyd didn't doubt Ava's ability to handle herself, but he did worry about her getting bit when extending her hand in kindness.

"He's a good boy," she said firmly, meeting Boyd's eyes. "Just jumpy."

"If you're sure, darlin'," Boyd replied. He wiped out a glass and changed the topic. "Quiet house tonight. I miss anything excitin'?"

Ava shrugged. "Johnny tossed out some boys for being rowdy earlier. Other than that, not much." She smiled at her lover fondly before hustling away to deliver the beers before they got warm.

As she dropped the beer at her mystery man's table, she paused. His lips were moving as he mumbled something to the sheen of liquid in the bottom of his shotglass. "What's that, honey?"

He looked up at her blankly then sang what sounded like gibberish to her. At her puzzled look, he sang more slowly, "Nye potomou l'tak chasto I pyechal'no i zamolkayem, glyadya v nyebyesa." His eyes were very tired and very sad as he watched her reaction to the obviously mournful tune. He coughed as he finished.

"What the hell is that?" one of the drunken rednecks at the next table demanded. "You crazy, makin' up music like that?"

The man snorted viciously and turned his shotglass between his fingers as he told Ava, "It seems to me each fallen soldier, who never came back from the bloody fields, did not die there as you were told, but turned into a crane white as snow." The tune fit the English words far more awkwardly than the guttural syllables he'd been singing. More loudly he added, "It's Russian, asshole. Just 'cause you never made it out of this hellhole, doesn't mean the rest of the world is as inbred stupid as you."

"Whoa," Ava snapped at both of them before the big, Kentucky boy could get up. "You started it Jeremiah. Now, you leave it be." She glared at the bigger man as he protested. "Don't even start with me, boy. You ain't paid your tab into two months. This boy here paid up front for every one of his drinks. I know which one of ya I'd rather have here tonight." Her eyebrow went towards her hairline as she waited for Jeremiah to decide. The man subsided muttering something about fucking communists.

She turned back to the nameless man. "Really, boy?" He gave her a foolish, broken grin that made her want to ruffle his hair and tell him it would all be okay. "You Russian?"

"No," he said. It was now completely apparent the man wasn't from Kentucky let alone the south. "I was a soldier though. Still am maybe. Too dumb for anything else." He was cut off by another coughing fit which only quieted when he sipped his beer.

"It's pretty, the song," Ava told him gently. "You should sing the rest for me after this place gets a little quieter, okay?"

"You keep pouring, beautiful, and I'll do whatever you want," the man said into his drink.

Ava patted his shoulder again before returning to the bar. Boyd looked pointedly at Jeremiah. "Our boy's a soldier," she said evenly. "He's not in a good way, Boyd. Watch 'im for me okay?"

Boyd immediately relaxed. Broken soldiers weren't unusual in Harlan County. This one at least kept to himself. "You think he might talk?" he asked, passing her the bottle of Old Crow over the bar.

"No," Ava said with a sigh. "He's not the talking kind." She grabbed the Jim Beam as well and went around re-filling shots.

The bar started emptying out as wives and mothers called. Boyd and Johnny kicked out those who would get into trouble if they got any drunker. As Johnny yelled last call, Ava went over with the Old Crow and a fresh beer for her soldier boy in the corner. "You gonna sing for me now?" she asked with the smile as she poured him the shot.

He coughed but nodded through the hacking. Throwing back the shot, he cleared his throat and sang in an even, if rough tenor. The words weren't like anything Ava had ever heard before. At full volume, the melody tugged at aching heartstrings while raising the hairs on the back of the neck. Sometimes he'd pause to translate for her. "Their distant voices giving us a reason to stand in tears and watch them flying by," he explained after singing a phrase that brought tears to Boyd's eyes. For Ava he added, "A wedge of cranes is fading in the distance. So far away I can no longer see. When I run out of days of my existence, I hope those cranes will find a space for me."

Ava took a shuddering breath as he continued to explain the last verse he'd sung, "That I may soar above my pain and anguish and join their ranks as many years ago. Recalling all their names in my new language and names of those whom I left below." He paused awkwardly, "The last part is the same as the first verse."

"Could you do it all the way through again, honey?" Ava asked, breaking the heavy silence which had fallen over the bar. "Don't worry about the translations this time."

The man shrugged, draining the last of his beer and sang the whole thing again uninterrupted. One of the drunks was crying softly. Even Johnny looked a little rattled. Ava sniffed a little looking at the boneless way the soldier had draped himself across the chair. He was too drunk to stand. "Okay, boys," she called to the remaining patrons. "Bar's closed." She and Boyd helped there usuals out the door. They left the soldier in his chair for the moment.

Johnny was finishing clean up, wiping down the bar with a rag. "Pretty sure he's all but passed out," he said, nodding at the soldier.

"I'll get 'im," Ava said before either man could step towards her soldier. "Probably safest."

"Be careful, honey," Boyd warned her. "Don't touch'im."

Ava nodded. She walked heavily over to the soldier's table and cleared her throat. "Honey, it's Ava the bar girl. You gotta get up now. We got a room in the back you can sleep in."

The soldier jerked upright, gasping. His hand flew to his chest, clawing at his breastbone. "Whoa," Ava said sharply. "Quit it, soldier." The barked command calmed him down some. "Okay, sweetheart," she said taking a careful step forward. "You with me now?"

"Yeah, Nat," the soldier said, reeling. "I'm here. What's wrong?"

"I'm not your Nat, boy," Ava said gently, snapping her fingers to get his attention. "I'm Ava from the bar. You know where you are?"

"Kentucky," the soldier rasped as he fell into a coughing fit. "I'm in a bar in Kentucky. Fuck, I'm drunk. You're the beautiful woman who was pouring me drinks." He leaned forward gasping for breath as he spoke. "Shit." Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he looked up. "Sorry about that."

Ava smiled at him. "It's fine, soldier boy. You need help up? We've got a room in the back you sleep it off in."

"I'm good," the soldier muttered, staggering to his feet. "Thank you, Missus Ava."

Ava wasn't aware he'd been sober enough to connect her and Boyd. "Miz," she corrected. "I ain't married. Boyd's mine though."

Nodding, the soldier repeated obediently, "Thank you, Miz Ava," as he staggered towards the door to the back room at Ava's guidance. She urged him up onto the couch and prone, letting him keep the jacket he'd wrapped defensively around himself. Boyd followed them, pulling the blankets they kept in the closet out. He smiled warmly at the soldier. "I know I ain't as pretty as Ava, but I'm gonna go ahead and put these over you if that's okay."

"It's fine," the soldier said between the hacking laying down had caused. He huddled into the folds of his jacket. With the cloth pulled tight is was apparent that while he was still a powerful man beneath the fabric, he wasn't a well man. There was only room for muscle and bone. In the brighter light of the office, the yellow undertone to his skin and black bags underneath the his eyes were stark. Boyd carefully layered the blankets over the other man, boots and all.

"Sleep tight," Boyd said, flipping off the lights and closing the office door.

Johnny was waiting at the bar with the bottle of Wild Turkey and three shot glasses. Boyd stepped behind the stool Ava was on. So she could lean against his chest. "Why is there a drunk on the couch in our place of business?" Johnny demanded.

"The Victory out front is his," Ava said quietly. "I checked his wallet when I was checking his ID. His insurance card was in it. I don't know about you, but I don't need another dead boy, let alone a dead soldier, on my conscious, Johnny Crowder."

"It's nice bike," Boyd commented, kissing the top of her head appreciatively. "I was admirin' it on the way in. You did good, Ava. That boy, his demons are doing their best to get him dead, and we don't need anymore dead heroes."

"His names Clinton," Ava said, taking her shot. "Clinton Romanov. He's from New York. Maybe a bit Russian."

Boyd hugged her tightly with an arm around her waist. "Oh honey. He got to you." Ava didn't bother to protest, taking Boyd's shot as well.

"He's sad," she finally said. "I ain't seen anyone that sad without gettin' mean in my entire life." She tipped her face into Boyd's neck.

"Well, seeing as business has concluded for the night since we have a guest," Boyd said, wrapping Ava in his arms. "I'm takin' my girl home, cousin. We'll come in early tomorrow. Though our guest does not seem like the larcenous type."

Johnny snorted, "I'm still takin' the moneybox, Boyd."

Boyd shrugged carelessly as he assisted Ava to her feet. "Do whatever you feel is necessary, Johnny. I'm not gonna stop you." He wrapped an arm around Ava's waist as they walked to the door. She was giggle like a girl by the time they reached Boyd's truck.

This was not how Raylan expected this trip in Harlan to go. He'd brought Tim, Rachel, and Art along to make sure it was all above board when he questioned Boyd and Johnny about a man who used to work for them who was now wanted on drug charges. They'd pulled up to Johnny's bar like every other time. Boyd had been restocking the bar when they entered. Everything had been going according to plan, except that Raylan somehow no longer had his gun and Tim, Rachel, and Art didn't dare go for theirs.

"Badge," the man who'd taken Raylan's gun hissed as he pressed the muzzle to the back of Raylan's neck. "Names, service, and badge numbers now. Or I blow his head off."

"Now, son," Art said, trying to take control of the situation.

Boyd interrupted speaking in a smooth, easy tone. "Clinton, the man you are currently holding captive is Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens. I know him. Now, if you're in some kind of trouble, Raylan here will hear you out."

"Marshals," the man breathed out relieved. "Fuck, you moron. They're just marshals. You're fine." The profanity seemed directed towards himself. The man, Clinton, staggered away from Raylan, holding out the gun by the barrel, safety on. "I am so fucking sorry, man. I'm hungover as shit. You scared me." His limbs were akimbo letting his jacket gap open to reveal a battered Metallica t-shirt.

"Raylan, marshals," Boyd said evenly. "I'd suggest we all move a bit slow for Clinton's sake. He's a bit jumpy around men."

"Clint," the stranger corrected. "Just Clint." He shook his head a little like he was trying to get the cobwebs out. "I'm really sorry."

Art raised both hands, taking a careful step forward. "We know, son. Now, I need you to give back Deputy Marshal Givens' weapon." Clint flinched away. He mirrored Art taking his own step back.

Boyd quickly said, "That pretty woman in the vest is Deputy Marshal Brooks, Clint. Why don't you hand the gun to her." Raylan was breathing hard as he stepped out of the path between Clint and Rachel. The kid was fast. Faster than Raylan even believed. He hadn't realized where his gun was until he'd felt it press against his spine.

Clint walked forward very slowly. He extended the gun grip first towards her with a shaky smile. "I won't hurt you," he said, looking just at her. "Nat, that's my partner Natasha, says I'm stupid about women."

Rachel smiled carefully in return as she slipped the gun out from his fingers. "I can take care of myself, Clint."

"Yeah, Nat says that too. She's right. You carry yourself a little like her," Clint stepped away from Rachel. No one quite wanted to tackle him yet. Clint obviously had advanced close-combat training.

Boyd spoke up again, "You remember me from last night, Clint?"

Clint nodded, trying to gather himself. "Yeah. You're Miz Ava's boyfriend, the pretty woman who was pouring my drinks. I'm in Harlan County, Kentucky at a bar. There wasn't a sign out front. My name is Clint Romanov. I rode here on my motorcycle. It's twenty-thirteen, two weeks after the attack on New York City. Can I lower my hands."

"You armed?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah," Clint said. "I'm carrying. I've got licenses for both. There's one in an in-pants holster on my hip, another at my ankle. You can take them if you want." Rachel handed her weapon to Tim, nodding to Clint as she approached him. She took both guns and backed away. Clint lowered his hands slowly to his sides. "I'd strongly advise all of you not to startle me. I'm not in a good place right now."

Art nodded, holstering his own weapon. "You military, son?"

"Yes, I was. I'm with SHIELD now," Clint said quietly. "Or… I was with them. I was in New York when it happened… And before. It's not been a good month. Fuck, I don't know if I have a job anymore."

"Well, shit," Raylan said calmly. "I am sorry to have startled you, son." He turned cautiously towards Clint. "Now, no one here is upset anymore. So you can be easy now. Boyd, get the boy a drink."

Boyd nodded. "Let me go get Ava, Raylan. Clint here thinks she's got the touch with his bourbon." He disappeared into the back.

Raylan nodded, taking off his hat and settling at the bar. Clint walked forward to the other side of the bar so his back was to the wall. All the marshals except Tim took seats next to Raylan. Clint looked steadily at Tim. "It's okay, shooter," he said to Tim. "I loose it, you put me down. I won't fight it."

Tim's eyes went wide. "I will," he said before sitting next to Raylan. Raylan laid a hand on Tim's arm like Tim was the one who was apparently suicidal.

Ava hurried out leaving Boyd leaning against the doorframe to the back room. "Everybody okay?" She looked around and seemed reassured. Picking up a bottle and a glass, she poured Clint a shot. "There you go, boy. That'll help the nerves."

"Thanks, beautiful," Clint said as he tossed it back. The burn started a fit of wet coughs which had him curled over the bar. She reached out and held her hand over him for a moment. When he nodded, she started rubbing his back through the choking coughs.

"Let me see your eyes," Ava ordered.

Clint tipped his head up. "I'm not on anything, Miz Ava. Just hungover." She still checked his pupils, then nodded to Raylan. Raylan nodded back in thanks. Clint leaned back a little to take in all of them. "Look, if you're going to arrest me, I'll go quietly. Fuck, there might be a warrant out for me in New York. I don't know. I didn't stick around to find out what they were going to do with me."

"If you behave yourself, I'll have Raylan and Rachel here drive you up to Lexington to find out," Art offered. "No cuffs. No arrest. All civil if you can be."

Clint shuddered uneasily. "They're straight-shooters, Clint," Ava said, still rubbing Clint's shoulder. "If nothin' else, they can get you to a doctor. You're burning up and sicker than an old dog." She tipped up his chin again. "You ain't got any better offers, boy. Not after what you just did."

With a chuckle broken by coughing, Clint nodded. "Fine. I'll follow you on my bike. I'm not getting in a strange, black car though. Fuck no. I saw that movie." Seeing the refusal brewing among the marshals, he added, "Brooks can ride with me. Armed if she wants."

"Clint, there is no way…" Art began, exasperated as if he was speaking to Raylan.

"I don't hurt women," Clint said flatly. His face was blank. "Or kids. Not anymore. Not for any reason. Worst that happens is you don't have me anymore, and, frankly, nothing about that changes if I suddenly decide I want out right now. Ask your sniper."

"Tim?" Art demanded, turning to his man.

Tim shrugged. His gaze hadn't wavered from Clint. "I don't think he's lyin', boss. Raylan and I might be able to put him down before he kills all of us, but you and probably Crowder are dead if he's telling the truth about not touchin' women."

Art frowned. Tim was always blunt in his assessments of situations and not prone to exaggeration. "Fine. If Rachel's comfortable with it, do it that way. Then, Mister Crowder, Deputy Gutterson and I have some questions for you."

"I'll be armed," Rachel said coolly as she stood up with Raylan. They bumped shoulders, mostly on Raylan's part as he checked she felt okay about the decesion.

Clint nodded. "I've got a spare helmet in my saddle bags. It's my partner's. So it should fit you."

Rachel checked her guns and smoothed down her coat. "I'm driving. You're hungover and shaking. I don't trust you to stay on the road."

Laughing until he coughed, Clint grinned at her with bloody teeth. "Yeah, you're driving, sweetheart."

Clint Romanov was as good as his word. Rachel had no problems with him on the long trip back to Lexington. During the breaks when Raylan took him to the bathroom, Clint had been quiet and well-behaved. Raylan stayed out of arms reach having learned his lesson the first time. The coughing got progressively worse throughout the day. Clint was definitely coughing blood. Both Raylan and Rachel caught him wiping it on the sleeves of his jacket. The cuffs were stained rusty-red on the inside like he'd been trying to hide it.

When they got him back to the office, Clint stripped off the coat revealing the extent of damage to his t-shirt and the black henly he wore beneath it. He smelled like whiskey and cigarette smoke, but more clean than not. His clothes were battered and badly stained, but he'd been taking care of them. "I'll call a doctor," Rachel said to Raylan. "Check him against the computer system. Let's see if there are any outstanding warrants."

"We can use Art's office," Raylan offered Clint. "He keeps his bourbon there too. It'll help with that nasty cough."

Clint nodded his thanks, following Raylan in and collapsing into a chair. Raylan booted up the computer, letting it cycle as he poured them each a glass. Clint's fingers were shaking as he took his. "Now," Raylan said, logging in, "I'm gonna need some information from you. You're from New York?"

"Yeah," Clint rasped. "That's where my driver's license is from."

Raylan pecked it in. "Full name?"

"Clinton Phillip Romanov." Clint's fingers played across his glass, but the rest of him was eerily still. "Date of birth October twenty-fifth, nineteen seventy-one. Social Eleven two, seven one, nineteen seventeen."

"Hold on," Raylan muttered. He really wasn't good at typing. Eventually he caught up enough to hit enter. To his surprise, his screen flickered. Then it went dark with green data streaming across it. "The hell?"

Clint downed his drink and slumped. "Wait for it," he advised Raylan.

Sure enough, Raylan's cell phone rang. He answered it, "Givens."

A woman with the coldest voice he'd ever heard said, "Give the phone to Clint, Deputy Marshal."

"Could I ask who's calling?" Raylan said mildly.

"Don't play stupid, Deputy Givens," the woman said brusquely. "Give him the phone."

Raylan grimaced, looking down at his cell. Then he held it out for Clint. "The charmin' woman on the other end would like to speak to you."

"Yeah," Clint winced. "She would." He pressed the phone to his year. "Hello, Nat." The woman switched languages, something Slavic. Clint seemed fluent as well, because when she paused he responded in the same langue. They seemed to argue. Except Clint started coughing and gasping wetly. The woman's voice got louder. He reassured her, but she wasn't buying it. It went on like that for several more minutes before Clint held out the phone to Raylan. "She wants you again."

"Thank you," Raylan said not bothering to hide annoyance. "Can I help you, ma'am."

"We're coming for him," she said wearily. "There will be five of us. Three men and two women. He'll know us. Don't give him to anyone else before we get there. If he's gone, I'll kill you." Her words left little doubt she was serious.

Raylan bit back a growl. "He'll be here. Where are you?"

"Two hours out," the woman replied after a slight hesitation. "We've been looking for him everywhere, Deputy. Thank you for finding him for us."

"You're welcome," Raylan replied automatically, deciding Clint was more trouble than he was worth. "We'll see you in two hours." He flipped his phone shut. "That's your partner?"

"That's Nat," Clint agreed.

Raylan shook his head in disbelief. "Who the hell are you?"

Clint shrugged, looking out into the rest of the office. "Depends on who you ask I guess." He held his empty glass between his palms like he wasn't quite sure he could safely set it down.

Slowly, palm out, Raylan reached forward, "Here. I got it." He pinched the rim of the glass and pulled it away to set on Art's desk. "What happened in New York that was so bad you had to leave a woman like that?"

Blinking, Clint looked back at Raylan. "Who said I was running from what happened in New York?" For moment, Raylan could have sworn Clint's eyes were electric blue.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Clint is singing is Zhuravli. It's a song about how the Russian soldiers who died in World War II were like white cranes. Here's a good link: http://ruslovo.blogspot.com/2011/05/zhuravli-song.html
> 
> It's sad and respectful. The kind of thing Clint might mutter about when he thinks about the SHIELD agents who died because of Loki and feeling guilty. The fact Clint can sing is a shameless salute to Jeremy Renner.
> 
> The Victory is a Victory motorcycle, specifically a Cross Country model. Finally, Clint has walking pneumonia. It's uncomfortable and sounds gruesome, but is not fatal if treated properly.


End file.
